


My Returning

by Conjure_Lass



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conjure_Lass/pseuds/Conjure_Lass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past is a cracked window through which each of us sees differently.  Thor would go to great lengths to open the door of the present, but will Loki bend to such desperate measures?  If everything goes according to plan, they'll have plenty of time together to figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Web

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nasty_show](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasty_show/gifts), [AshlarKithkanan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshlarKithkanan/gifts).



> Hello! As this is my first jaunt into the fandom, I would beg your indulgence for any characterization issues as I'm still getting to know them in my head. Nonetheless, I think this is a worthy effort! Hope I interest you guys into staying for the entire ride!

### The Web

It is not a Midgardian prison.

And as such it is far from the terrible dungeons some might imagine. There are no rusting bars, no agonized screams, no torturous machines dripping with blood, no rats scurrying to and from the dank corners. Instead, it is clean and almost eerily quiet. Sterile white rooms with plain, smooth walls and no windows. The prisoners inside are equally as silent, some by force, some by choice, all waiting for their justice to be laid down.

Even Loki.

The heels of Thor’s boots click with an almost tangible lack of enthusiasm against the floor, echoing along the corridor as he journeys to Loki’s cell. The one at the end of the hallway. The one with so many built in safeguards that even one as inept with magic as himself can feel the thrum of the innumerable suppressive spells holding Loki within it. 

Pausing a few feet from the door, he sighs at his own weak heart, at the glimmering thread of hope that does not fray and refuses to snap. Truly, he is in no particular rush for the coming confrontation. His brother has been beyond reason for so long that Thor tires of trying. So why then he convinced his father of this plan, this rehabilitation, is beyond even himself. 

“I believe in the Midgardian realm, they call this sort of thing stalking.”

To Thor’s credit, he does not start, though he does feel his heart skip ( _Once! Twice!_ ) at the calm, almost tedious tone of his brother’s voice drifting through the small opening near the side of the doorframe. But then, obviously Loki would be bored. When they were children, the most hated punishment he could be dealt was to be left alone with nothing to do, with no one to banter with, no one to trick, nothing with which to cause chaos. To sit, lonely on his bed, with no books or magical instruments, was like torture itself. 

And used sparingly, as to do so would risk him emerging from his discipline making mischief a hundred fold worse than before.

Leaning in against the door, Thor rests the tips of his fingers there, drags them in mindless patterns across the surface. He breathes. Odin had not found this plan advisable, thought it foolish and futile, but Thor can’t help himself. “I would hardly call this--”

“It is,” Loki’s disembodied voice interrupts. “You’ve come here at least a dozen times since my incarceration and said nothing. What’s different now?”

“How do you know I intended this time to be different?” No point in denying it, really. 

He catches his bottom lip between his teeth (a gesture he allows only when others are not present to see it) and turns away, fingers still in motion as though to stop them would be to drown in awkward discomfort. It is easier to participate in Loki’s mind-games when he can’t actually see his face, Thor decides. When there isn’t the danger of being captured by a wayward expression or the flash of clever eyes. 

Long moments pass, and the quiet settles so heavily that Thor can hear his heart thumping in his ears, drowning out the sound of the guards making idle conversation in the nearby hall. He begins to think Loki isn’t going to respond. 

“Your steps were purposeful…less hesitant. You’ve always fidgeted terribly when you’re indecisive, brother.” 

“Indecisive?” _Tap, tap, tap, pa rum, pum, pum, pum_ ; his index fingers drum an unsteady rhythm. “Of what?”

“I know not. Enlighten me.”

Challenge is woven into those flippant words, and despite knowing that he is being baited, Thor chooses to rise to them anyway. Whipping around before he can second-guess himself, he presses his palm to the handprint-shaped indentation in the center of the door and waits. At first his touch does nothing, until all at once a thin network of circuits bloom up around his fingers and the door becomes opaque and milky, the barest outline of his brother’s form visible through the screen of magic. 

Thor hesitates only a second before remembering that the time for indecision is gone. The magic is already cast, waiting like a dormant flower bulb within him. 

He steps through.

When Thor had first brought Loki back to Asgard he had seen him to the prison gates and no further. Sleepless nights would pass in which he berated himself for that decision, for not being able to deliver his brother through those doors. For not having the mettle to see the shackles the mages would place upon him, the spells to keep him docile, the chains to keep him immobile. But Thor’s emotions had ridden too high, and his courage had failed him. He couldn’t bear witness to it, couldn’t reconcile this terrible present with happy memories of the past.

Now though, upon seeing what has been done, he knows he made the right decision that day. Never would he have been able to stand idly by and watch the jailers bind Loki in such a manner. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that he would have intervened. That he would have stepped in to stop them, convinced them of some other means of captivity.

Loki rests on his knees in the center of the room, his hands held behind his back by unseen forces, manacles of magic strong enough to keep him from struggling. And while his body seems weary from the uncomfortable position he’s been in for these past days, it is not what Thor is stunned by. 

It is the collar. 

The copper is simple and unadorned, but attached to its circumference, draping out to the surrounding walls, are hundreds of tiny cerulean threads, fine as spider’s silk. They glow with an unnatural radiance, ebbing and flowing from Loki’s body like the throbbing ocean, sapping his powers in gradient waves, scattering them away Thor knows not where. 

No, he would not have been able to stand for this. 

He can barely stomach it now.

“Loki,” he breathes, hands useless at his sides. His eyes are wide, and he is unable to rein in his expression.

Raising an eyebrow at him, the one that has always said so much without speaking, Loki scornfully shakes his head. Immediately the air crackles and bursts around him, explosions of white illuminating the cell as the threads tighten at the small disturbance. Rapidly growing taut, they stretch Loki up until his spine straightens painfully, his thighs trembling with the effort of holding himself in such a position. Jaw clenched, Thor watches Loki swallow any sounds of discomfort, refusing to show any weakness even as the threads begin to relax.

“Please, Thor. Do not pretend as though you didn’t know the lengths they would go to in order to keep me contained.” His voice is calm, unstrained; Thor is amazed at his brother’s ability to retain his composure under such duress. 

“I did not.” It is the truth. Ignorant and naïve though it may be, it is still the truth.

“Then you are an idiot.” He does not look away, holds Thor’s gaze steady with his own. “Hardly a worthy trait of a future king. But then, what would I know of worthiness?” 

Thor would like to argue. To finds words disputing his brother’s bitterness and anger. To bring his unreasonable mind to reason. But when he searches himself for them, reaches down for something to say to ease the pain he hadn’t known was there for 2000 years…Thor finds nothing. Because this too, he realizes with sudden clarity, is a truth. Loki, whether right or wrong, has never had much occasion to feel worthy. And Thor, without meaning to, has spent millennia compounding the problem. 

But perhaps now that he _does_ know, he can set things to right. The fact that Loki doesn’t seem to want him to _do_ so is just a minor obstacle. 

“If you’ve come to say anything of value, would you kindly do so? You’ve interrupted my thoughts.”

Suddenly curious, Thor crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet with his hands hanging loosely between spread thighs. “What were you thinking about?” he asks. His brother’s musings have always been a source of interest and mystery to him. Despite never understanding a word of it, Thor had oftentimes in the past asked Loki to explain his magic, to demonstrate whatever enchantments he was perfecting at the time. Secretly, he had thought it soothing to close his eyes and listen to his brother’s sweet baritone, the lilting of his well-chosen words, the animated edge his voice took on when he spoke of something that excited him.

He wonders now if he will ever have that opportunity again. 

When no answer to his question seems forthcoming (save Loki’s mocking stare) Thor decides he has stalled long enough. If he is to go through with his plan, it must be now before he loses his nerve entirely and requests the mages remove the spell they have cast within him. 

If such a thing can even be done.

Reaching into the top of his boot, he fishes briefly for the small piece of parchment he’d stowed there earlier and tries to study it. He is instantly both confused and worried. The instructions involving the spell he is to carry out had been very precisely given, and though it had shamed him to do so he had penned out a small set of notes regarding its performance. He is no sorcerer, and as such is not willing to risk their safety over a little wounded pride. 

“Your expression does not inspire confidence, Thor.”

“Hush for once in your life.”

Standing to his full height, he ignores Loki’s quiet mutters of being melodramatic and takes a deep breath. “Loki Odinson,” he says, snapping his fingers. The threads flicker and fall away, the manacles shattering, leaving Loki free to tumble forward onto his hands, his eyes wide as he attempts to right himself. “Your punishment has been left to me. You will remain in my sight at all times until such time as I find you…rehabilitated.”

“I will nev--”

“ _You will_!” Thor’s temper is short with nervousness, agitation rising with the fear of failure. It bothers him to go into any fray ill prepared. And this, though it does not seem so, is indeed a battle. He does not wish to be defeated. “You will because you have no choice in the matter.”

There is nothing more to say. Consulting his scribbled notes one more time, he steps forward to grab his brother by the arms and drag him to his feet, tightening his grip when Loki seems slightly unsteady from so many days spent on his knees. Somehow Thor resists the urge to bury his fingers further, to shake Loki until the poisonous ideas clinging to him like leeches loose themselves from his mind. 

It would accomplish nothing save giving him an outlet for his frustration. 

He has practiced the incantation, repeated it again and again in an effort to master it, but to him magic is lyrical nonsense and its use leaves him uncomfortable. Thor is unaccustomed to lacking confidence, to the nervousness that comes with uncertainty. He hates that he can see his own doubt reflecting in Loki’s eyes, eddying back to him in an endless circle, corroding his composure all the more. 

He hates this.

“What is this? What are you doing, Thor Odinson?” Loki whispers, his whole body tense, eyes narrowed suspiciously. There is rebelliousness in the set of his muscles though, an unwillingness to surrender that Thor can _feel_. There will be no cowering, no pleading from his defiant little brother. It makes him proud. 

“Would you believe I am not quite certain?” A small, sheepish smile.

“Yes. Yes, I wou--” It is then that Loki happens a glance down at the parchment resting on the floor where Thor has discarded it. It takes only seconds for him to realize what’s going on. His eyes widen. His reaction is immediate. 

“ _No_.”

“No!” He reaches up to cover Thor’s mouth with his palm but Thor is already on the move, murmuring the spell as quickly as he’s able before Loki makes its completion impossible. “Damn you, _no_!” 

The words thus spoken, it awakens; Thor can feel the magic like a living thing bursting and growing in his belly. It writhes like a snake within, slithering through his innards, looking for escape. It seeks its intended victim. It breathes. It craves. And he feels that craving permeating him like it is his own. Inescapable, overwhelming, all-consuming hunger eating him alive. It drives him forward in a lurching motion towards Loki’s lips, towards the softest, thinnest skin. The most easily broken, where the blood flows closest to the surface.

He does not register it as a kiss. He does not register his brother’s thrashing protests, nor hears the violent cursing in multiple languages muffled by his mouth. It is not a kiss. It is a means to an end. His teeth gnash into Loki’s tender bottom lip, tear at the skin to spill blood onto Thor’s waiting tongue. 

Something clicks.

For a breathless moment, he thinks it is over. That it is done. In fact, he is about to retreat when it finally _does_ come, oozing from his gut, clawing its way up his throat to pour from his lips into Loki’s open mouth. Retching, Thor crushes his brother to his chest, feeling him go still as the spell tumbles between them, sticky and molten and gooey. The ties bind. The locks secure. The web is woven. Panic briefly grips Thor as he begins to struggle for breath, as the saliva gathers at the corners of his mouth to spill down his chin beyond his control.

He hates this.

An eternity seems to pass before it truly _is_ over, before Thor is able to wrench himself back, gasping like a drowning man, his ears just clear enough to hear Loki do the same beside him. They stumble away from each other, to opposite sides of the cell, but their gazes meet just long enough for Thor to see the mortification, the horrified disgust in Loki’s too-wide eyes.

He knows what has been done. It is written all over his face. 

For he, like Thor, can _feel_ it. The delicate strands tethering them, so tangible that Thor thinks he should be able to see them. He reaches out despite not being able to, his hands trembling, genuinely surprised when they do not tangle between his fingers. They’re so real. He should be able to see them. 

Loki coughs loudly and the thick sound of his heaving draws Thor’s attention. His long arms are about himself, his entire body shaking with the effort of trying to fight off the spell. Thor knows it will be a losing battle. With his magic sapped, Loki does not have the means to ward off an enchantment of this magnitude. They both know that. But they both also know that it doesn’t matter. Because Loki will give everything he has to fight it anyway. 

That’s his way. The way Thor has always loved him, despite the madness.

“I…” Loki murmurs when at last his shoulders slump in defeat, when his entire body goes limp. “You…” His cheeks are wet when he looks up, but his eyes are ever willful. He does not wipe the tears from his face. 

“I _despise_ you.”

Devoid of comforting words, Thor merely nods.

 


	2. The Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the more intimate details of their binding become clear, Thor realizes he may be a little out of his depth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awwww! I got such a nice response to the first chapter! Thank you so much! I'm really excited for this next one, and I hope you are too! I'm sorry about the slow updates, but sadly I must work to pay bills. If only I could win the lotto...

### The Fever

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” 

“Brother, I say nothing!” Thor runs fingers through his hair and sighs, utterly exasperated. He does not know how many more times he can repeat himself. This makes fifteen.

“Well then, stop--,” hesitating, Loki’s gaze flicks about Thor’s bedchambers as though the walls themselves will assist him in finding the right words “--feeling things! Take me back to my cell and leave me alone!” 

“You know I cannot. We are…bound.” The word is spoken cautiously, almost guiltily, and is quite obviously not what his brother desires to hear. Loki’s frustration explodes, rushing towards Thor’s mind with a ferocity that leaves him barely able to feel _anything_ in the onslaught of their combined reactions. Recoiling, he covers his face with his hands, telling himself to breathe, to weed out his own emotions from Loki’s overwhelming ones. 

Things are _not_ going according to plan. 

“Bound?” His brother’s voice dips down, soft and light, a sharp contrast to his expression that is quickly taking on a hint of mania. The corner of his eye is twitching, his nostrils flaring, his entire body quivering until Thor is concerned he might vibrate right out the open window and plummet to his death. “And do you understand what that truly means, Thor? Did you know this would happen when you requested it be done!?”

“They told me we would be tied together!” Suddenly defensive, Thor rises from the desk he has been reclining on and slams his fist against it, the wood cracking under his hand. His brother winces in response; Thor is not certain if it is from the sound or the torrent of anger he is emitting. “That we would be unable to leave each other’s sights! They said nothing of this…emotional union!”

“ _That is what a binding is_!” 

“Then why did they not say so?!”

“Oh, I don’t know…maybe because they assumed a prince of Asgard would know such trivial things? But, as ever, your stupidity has been underestimated.”

“Silence yourself!”

And…much to Thor’s surprise, he does.

He does, and the rush of raw emotion that fills the void is enough to drown them both. Loki is embarrassed, angry, and violently unstable; Thor finds himself nauseous, cast off in the hurricane of sensation his brother lives in every single second of the day. It is little wonder, Thor thinks, that Loki has lost himself. He cannot say with certainty that he would not do the same. How could _anyone_ exist in a mind so chaotic? So utterly devoid of peace? Thor can barely breathe around it, much less function. 

“ _Stop it_. Your sympathy is hateful!” Loki, voice shuddering, spins away and rounds the bed, heading to the lavatory.

He does not get far.

“ARGH!“ The pain, like his very skin is being boiled and torn off simultaneously, doubles Thor over, knocks the very breath from his lungs. It is like the hundreds of tiny chains linking them together are jerking at every point of his flesh, dragging him bodily towards Loki. Unable to hold the sound, Thor cries out, clutching at himself ( _anywhere, everywhere_ ) in a desperate effort to stave off the instant and intense agony. 

The price of their separation ceases only when Thor musters up the willpower to stumble for the lavatory, accidentally knocking over a standing mirror when he teeters a few steps into the journey. It seems a lifetime, but once Loki is in sight Thor collapses against the wall, sliding down to heave a sigh of relief as the pain begins to ebb. Exhausted and tingling, he tries to catch his breath, rubbing at his arms as though every nerve is exposed to the open air, red and aching. There is a spiteful comfort in seeing that Loki fares no better. His brother lies prone on his side, trembling violently, beads of sweat rolling off his pale skin, his eyes pinched shut. 

Thor, likewise soaked, reaches up to touch his hair, grimacing at the feel of it. “You see now?” he rasps. 

“I see.” Whispered words, though far from broken ones, echo off the stone walls of the bathing chamber.

They remain quiet for long minutes, each of them lost in their own thoughts. For Thor’s part, he is not pleased. Despite this being entirely his own idea, he must admit (if only internally) that he may have been slightly unprepared for the gravity of the situation he has undertaken. Magic is foreign to him, and is far from the childish, weak tool that he once thought it to be. He is, he finds, out of his depths for the time being. But optimism has always been one of his better traits, and Thor knows he’ll have the affair sorted soon enough. 

Using the wall to aide in rising from the floor, Thor makes his way unsteadily to Loki’s side, intent on helping him to his feet. A hand shoots out to stop him before he can do so, long fingers weaving blindly through Thor’s own, the brush of their palms warm and unnervingly pleasant. They remain that way just long enough for Loki to give him a warning squeeze and then they are apart. 

Oddly enough, Thor almost misses the contact upon their withdrawal, wondering bemusedly if this too is simply a side effect of the spell or a symptom of something more serious. He certainly hopes not, because otherwise he fears it will require some serious contemplation, which admittedly has never been something he’s particularly good at.

“Well…that was miserable,” Loki says flippantly, rousing Thor from his musings. He’s shaking his head from side to side as though to clear it, dark locks tangling around his chin and ears as he does so. When he stops long enough to close his eyes, Thor is able to see the dark circles that mar his pale skin, standing out sharply beneath the lids. He looks as tired as Thor feels. “Let’s not do that again, shall we?”

“I would like that very much.”

“Then it is the first thing in ages upon which we truly agree.”

The tone of Loki’s voice makes Thor chuckle, but the mirth dies quickly when it is not shared, and he sobers. Long has it been since he and his brother shared any true laughter together. So long, in fact, that he cannot recall the memory of it, cannot bring forth the sound of Loki’s happiness from his thoughts. Everything is tainted now by the maniacal, insane laughter that has replaced any semblance of the man he once knew.

“Perhaps we should rest,” Thor murmurs, feeling somber and a little defeated. Loki does not respond beyond following him silently into the bedchambers, though the compliance is probably due to the pain still fresh in his mind more than anything else. 

Blind obedience is not Thor’s goal, anyway.

He is sluggishly tugging off his tunic when he feels eyes upon him, right in the center of his back, like an itch he can’t scratch. Glancing over his shoulder, he watches Loki thoughtfully scrutinizing him from a nearby chair, looking sleepy and thoughtful all at once. _Calm_. Now that the storm has cooled between them, it is much easier to siphon things out, much easier to let Loki’s feelings become a soothing background noise, almost unnoticeable until Thor actually puts forth the effort to recognize them. It is less frightening, and seems less of an obstacle than it was before.

Sighing as he slides between cool sheets that smell of sage and anise, Thor waves a hand for his brother to join him. He does not. “Will you not come to bed?”

“The chair is fine.”

“Loki,” Thor motions again, “you need not spend the night in discomfort. My bed would hold half a dozen men.”

If possible, Loki retreats further into both the chair and himself, arms crossed over his chest. “I assure you, every moment I spend in your company is uncomfortable. My physical condition is the least of my irritations.”

Realizing the futility of saying more, Thor relents and quiets, rolling onto his back once he’s fluffed his pillows to his liking. Arms spread at his sides, hands loose and open, the ceiling spans above him, swirling patterns of ivory that have been the same since his childhood. Everything in his chambers are almost identical to when he was a boy. Even the sound of Loki’s soft breathing across the room is hardly something new. 

In those days Loki would often keep vigil at his bedside, easing his childish fears with soothing words when Thor was too ashamed to call their mother to his side. Nightmares were for boys, and even at a young age Thor had envisioned himself a man…

*****

_Night insects called to one another through the humid summer air, undeterred by the sounds of distant thunder rumbling in the distance. The storm was coming, though not soon enough for the young God of Thunder, who shivered as though it was not so muggy that his nightshirt clung to him in sticky patches._

_He had gone to bed early, feigning fatigue from his lessons and waving off any worries of his having barely eaten more than a few morsels of the evening meal. Sleep came easily at first, almost a drugged slumber, but was interrupted by the nightmare Thor had been unwilling to admit to thus far._

_It is fortunate that with his brother he had little need to do so._

_“I’m going to call father,” Loki whispered urgently, drawing back from where he had been cupping Thor’s flushed cheeks to crawl down the length of the bed, dropping from the footboard with a muted thud. The top of his dark head was the only visible part of his body from Thor’s vantage point near the pillows. “I’m no help.”_

_“W-what? Loki, no!”_

_The threat of Odin’s disapproval more frightening than any nightmare or sickness, Thor spilled forward onto his belly, blankets tangling around his knees as he dove desperately for the end of the bed. Reaching out blindly, he fisted Loki’s nightshirt to tug him back, trying without success to smother the startled cry that carried through the darkened room and into the corridor beyond._

_Furious green eyes whipped around to level him, and even in the dark Thor could see Loki’s bottom lip protruding in a blatant pout. “What was that for, big oaf?! Someone is sure to--”_

_Footsteps, the clicking of tall shoes, sounded at the end of the hallway, quickly approaching._

_Both boys froze, though Loki was faster in collecting his wits and turned to the door, putting his skinny arm out in front of Thor as though to guard him, to conceal him from sight. He whispered something short and fierce, but Thor was too busy hiding against his shoulder to hear what it was, too busy being mortified to appreciate it. His face was utterly burning with shame, and small though it was, he took comfort in knowing that his brother was the only one in all the nine realms to have ever seen him in such a state._

_“Thor?” A soft voice, their mother’s, rose up on the other side of his door. “My love, are you all right?”_

_Loki gesturing wildly to the chamber door (after slapping Thor’s head a few times) alerted him to the fact that he should respond. “Yes, mother! I was…getting a drink and dropped my cup.”_

_“Very well, but straight back to bed.” The footsteps retreated, leaving in their wake only the sound of Thor’s heart hammering in his ears, his stomach clenching with a sudden nausea, and the awkward realization that he had wrapped his small brother in something of an impromptu bear hug._

_Nonetheless he felt paralyzed, unable to release his grip even when Loki began to stir._

_“Thor?“ Loki turned in the circle of his arms to tap Thor’s nose, his soft, pale face gentle and concerned. “Thor, are you okay?”_

_He was not._

_Because when Thor had become old enough to realize that Loki was his little brother, which subsequently made him a big brother, he’d made a silent pact with himself to always be strong. Always. So that, no matter the circumstance be large or small, Thor would forever be able to come to Loki’s aide. Protect him. Fight with him against any and all enemies._

_And yet here he was, cowering, barely able to even concoct a suitable excuse to save the two of them from trouble. It definitely wasn't one of his more…shining moments. If he could not guard his brother from their own mother, what could he do?!_

_Embarrassment and disappointment morphing to anger, he shoved Loki away, feeling his fever flare at the exertion. “Of course! You’re lucky I was able to fool mother and save us from getting caught,” he huffed, scuttling towards the pillows before he could see the look on Loki’s face._

_The guilt was immediate and overwhelming, biting huge chomps out of him as it ate at his conscience._

_Soon it had devoured him entirely, and when Thor glanced about to see what had become of Loki, he found him sitting posture-perfect in the tall, flowery chair nearest the bed, hands resting neatly in his lap. He looked decidedly sullen, small feet dangling off the high-backed seat, guarded eyes resting on Thor as though his very gaze could burn a hole through the blankets. There was an almost practiced coolness in the set of Loki’s jaw, the line of his mouth. It was an expression much too old for such a little boy._

_Letting his face crumble with regret, Thor watched and waited for the icy stare to melt into something warmer, less stony, more real. Loki’s thawing expression loosened the tight place in Thor’s chest, set free the captive breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. But try though he may, a true apology was beyond him, and so he let the silent one settle between them like the first snows of late autumn. Powder soft and delicate._

_“Loki,” he said finally, but was cut off by a raised hand, a calm understanding of things unspoken. The gesture reminded him of his mother, of her subtle authority, and it made Thor smile. “You will remain?”_

_Loki’s expression was incredulous as he swung his legs up into the armchair as though in answer to Thor’s question, moving to snuggle against the velvet upholstery. Palm pillowed under his cheek, Loki’s entire body coiled easily into the recess of the chair, making him look tiny and slight._

_“And you won’t tell anyone?” Thor inquired further, yawning around an affectionate smile. The pillows felt cushier than before, yielding to his head like the softest marzipan, more inviting as the fever took firm hold. Sweat pooled on his upper lip; he licked it away._

_“Thor…”_

*****

Loki is unable to curl into the big chair anymore, but that does not keep Thor from finding his presence comforting. Nor does it keep him from relishing the low rush of Loki’s breath, soothing in its peaceful ebb and flow, quiet in the dark. And despite the fact that circumstances are decidedly different from when they were children, Thor finds it almost disturbingly easy to pretend that his brother is here at his bedside to keep vigil once again, moody and dear with the quiet authority that has always made Thor behave far better than any great show of power ever did.

Loki rubs the tip of his nose in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible before drifting back to deeper repose, and despite feeling the stress of the day sucking at the edge of his mind, Thor smiles. When it is quiet like this, things seem as they were… 

He wants them to be.

So just as he joins his brother in Nótt's embrace, Thor makes another pact. One that, this time, he will not break. He will make this moment true again, somehow. Loki will return. 

Perhaps they both will.


End file.
